Common theme of years gone by, if trouble came right back.
It must be you’re on the wrong side, the wrong side of the tracks.
In present world, no tracks exist. Trouble’s on every side.
There’s no suburb or rural place to flee so you can hide.
In inner city, January eve, a house burns, mother dies.
In northeast suburb, dear friend’s stabbed. In blood, her body lies.
Distinction, none, the tracks are gone. The hands of violence great.
Without the tracks, the train roars on. The help still comes too late.
What can be done in city, state, for raging sea of slain?
First, keep in mind that evil lurks beneath some who seem sane.
The deadly virus of this plague transmits through dormant rage.
Don’t ignore the book of violence. You may appear on its next page.